Pool of Hearts
by HunSher
Summary: John Watson goes on a holiday in Spain where Sherlock Holmes is one of the lifeguards. Thanks fo Jazz and Ed for beta'ing!
1. Chapter 1

„John, don't be like this!"

„Harry, I told you. I don't need it!"

„I'm not asking for your opinion. I want to give it to you and you are going to accept it."

oOo

That's how it started. John Watson, Captain of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers has been invalided from service just a few months prior. He had a tiny little bedsit in London which he couldn't afford, his pension being extremely low. So he started to work in a clinic as a GP and was already bored with it. He missed the war, the rush of adreline that came with it, to be precise. Working as a doctor was dull, monotonic and the cases were ordinary ones.

Harry, his sister saw his boredom. She was rather observant when she wasn't tipsy or outright drunk. She tried everything to cheer him up which made John rather anxious. Going out with your sister is embarrassing. It's even more embarrassing when your sister is Harry. She wanted John to meet new people, probably a girlfriend or at least get laid. Despite of this, it was always Harry who ended up bringing a girl home.

After 5 night-outs she gave up. John thought that now he might have his own life back when Harry visited him. It was already more than strange for Harry to visit him as she hated that little flat – well, John did, too. Harry sat in John's chair next to his desk while John made tea. He handed her a mug and collapsed on his bed. The awkward silence was dragging long when Harry started to speak.

„Look, John. I know you really don't want my help but I can't stand seeing you like this."

John frowned, confusion written all over his face, though he knew exactly what Harry meant. When he didn't open his mouth to speak, Harry continued.

„I also know that those nights at the bar were complete disasters."

„You're telling me…" John couldn't help it. Sarcasm poured out of him like a very expensive cologne.

„Yes, John, thank you. So listen. I have another idea. Remember that Clara and I had our anniversary in April, but broke up right after that, in June?"

„…Yes… Why are you telling me this?" John was confused. What did Harry's relationship with Clara have to do with him not going out?

„Well. We got a lot of presents." Oh dear, this was getting weirder and weirder. John wasn't sure he was following.

„I'm not sure I underst-"

„Just let me finish it!" yelled Harry. She was getting angry at John for interrupting every sentence she said.

„Okay, go on then. I'll shut up." retreated John and held up both hands.

„Thank you!" sighed Harry and took a huge sip as if gathering her willpower. „As I was saying we got presents. And I want to give one of them to you."

„Jesus Christ, Harry, if you're planning to give me a fucking dildo I'm not going to talk to you ever again!" John practically screamed, his voice high-pitched and shocked.

„Holy shit, don't be disgusting, John! No one gave us a dildo for the anniversary. Though now that you mention it, I'm wondering…"

„Harry." John's voice was low and bordering menacing.

„Sorry, yeah, okay, gifts. So one of them is a prepaid holiday. It's for two so…"

„Forget it, I'm not going anywhere with you." John sounded disgusted and couldn't look Harry in the eye.

„John, I would never take you on a holiday with myself. Especially to Spain. You would ruin my chances! But anyway, what I mean is that I want you to take the tickets. I want you to go to Alicante. You should relax a bit. See the sun again. I know you miss the Afghan heat. You could dive, try parachuting and other slightly dangerous things. And you might find a nice girl there, you know." Harry shrugged and looked at John with her 'I'm not saying you need it but still' look.

„You want me to go on a holiday in Spain." John was dumbfounded. He eyed Harry with disbelief in his eyes.

„Yes, John, that's what I just said, thank you for trying to comprehend." Harry pouted and waved with her right hand while she sipped at her tea.

„Why would I want to go on a bloody holiday?" asked John because he really didn't see how this would help his situation. Because he was in a 'situation', he and Harry both knew. The gun in his drawer was tempting sometimes. No, of course he wouldn't shoot himself, no, but he was tempted to roam the streets at night, looking for trouble.

„Because you could do interesting things there, not like here. There would be no job, no traffic, nothing urgent for 3 weeks."

„Three weeks?" John felt his hairline moving as his eyebrows pushed it toward the crown of his head.

„Yes, John, three weeks. The price includes travelling, accommodation, food, outdoor programmes and entrance to the spa area – saunas, jacuzzis, massages and other things you can get in a spa."

God, a good massage could do wonders with his shoulder and limping leg. Yeah, and the feel of talented female hands on his back… It was a long time since he felt that.  
„Why would you let me have it? Why don't you take one of your friends with you?" John was a little bit suspicious about Harry's motives.

„Because I care about you, Johnny, no matter what you think of me." She knew that calling him 'Johnny' has always had a positive effect. It reminded him of times when they were kids and none of it was real – alcoholism, war and injuries.

John shifted in his seat, moved a bit closer to the edge of the bed.

„If – and I mean it, if – I decide to leave, when do I have to leave?" John couldn't believe what he was doing. He was actually considering Harry's offer! That alone should speak volumes about how he hated his civilian life.

„Next Monday." Harry looked a little pinker than before, and had to turn her face away from John.

„Well, you're not giving me too much time, are you?" murmured John as he thought about the things he needed to do before he could leave. God, he was really about to say yes! But being honest with himself, he needed distraction. His job was shit, he hadn't friends and was bored as hell.

„I know I'm going to regret this, but to hell with it, I could use some time alone on a sandy beach."

„So you're saying yes?" Harry's eyes grew bigger and were shining wildly. She was probably more excited than John himself. That made him smile. Harry could be so child-like sometimes. But all she wanted now was for John to enjoy himself, and he appreciated it very much.

„Yes, I think I am. I don't know what's gotten into me, but yes, I accept your gift." John shook his head and rubbed his face with both of his hands.

„Perfect!" Harry jumped, ran to the bed and gave a bear hug to his brother. „Start preparing and I'll drop by with the tickets tomorrow."

„Why are you so excited?" John furrowed his brow. This wasn't her usual self. It was almost as frightening as when she was drunk. Or probably it was more annoying…

„I don't know! I just wanted to give you something so you could stop being so miserable. But I never thought you might actually accept it. So I'm overjoyed!" She was clasping her hands and she spoke fast and her voice was higher-pitched than normal. She was obviously excited.

„Well, okay, then. You'll give me the tickets and I'll arrange my hours with the others in the clinic. And then I'll leave on Monday."

* * *

That night John had a dream. Again. But this time the ending was different. It started just like all his nightmares have started.

Beams of hot summer sun touched his cheeks as dry, heated air licked his skin. He needed to blink a few times to adjust to the brightness of the desert. His body was boiling under the military uniform and the particles in the wind stung his face. He looked around and saw three men to his left and two to his right. They were all around him, encircling him, as though they wanted to protect him. They all had guns in their hands, and when John looked at his hands, they were empty. So they were really protecting him.

After a few minutes they reached a slope and he realized that the smoke he had seen was coming from down there. There was a car that emitted the smoke. Three men and a woman were around it, bruises and cuts on each of them. Two of them could walk and were trying to get the other two as far from the vehicle as possible.

John's team was a rescue team and they brought him to help the wounded. They moved down the slope fast and got to the four other soldiers.

"Doc, check them. We'll cover the area. Work fast." said one of the men on his team and they started to spread out to secure them.

John ran to a huge rock where a soldier was sitting with his back pressed against it.

"Here, let me help, I'm a doctor." John pushed the two men kneeling beside the third away and brought his medical kit out from his backpack. He looked him up and down and catalogued the injuries.

_Cut on left thigh. Long, but not too deep. Need__s __a few stitches. Can be done here_.

He tore his bulletproof vest and shirt to check his torso.

_Bruised ribs on left side._ He ran his fingers over them_. Not broken. Needs rest._

He took of the man's helmet.

_Cut on forehead. Caused by the helmet. Only a scratch. Needs disinfection._

John quickly sterilized the wound on the soldier's leg and sewed it with a couple of stitches. He sterilized his head, too.

"Okay, he's ready. He needs a thorough check-up back at the camp but he's stable enough to be mobilized. Where's the other one?" He looked around but couldn't really see the fourth of them.

"I'm here, doc.", the woman said from the other side of the rock.

"Coming." John jumped up to kneel next to her. He took her helmet off when the loud noise of a helicopter rotor blasted the air.

"Everybody down now!" yelled one of John's teammates when the machine flew out from the way they came. It brought a whirlwind with itself and clouded everyone's sight. The crew of the helicopter started firing and their team responded with fire, too. The noise was unbearable, almost deafening. One of the missiles swept just a few inches from John and a few others weren't too far away, either. He felt confused and helpless as he had no gun to protect himself or the injured woman next to him. He just stayed on the ground, not daring to move and risk being shot. He needed to be able to work and help the others if one of them got shot. The sound of the helicopter started to fade and when it flew out of firing range, one of John's comrades hurried over to him.

"Doc, we gotta go. They'll be back in a few and we have to get everyone out alive. We called for back-up, they'll be here in 2." He patted John's back and signaled for his teammates to gather around them.

John looked at the woman and the air froze in his lungs. There was a huge red stain on her torso and it was growing rapidly. He shook himself and grabbed gauze and disinfectant in his hands and ripped off her clothing. There was a huge bullet wound on her lower abdomen, just beneath the line of the bulletproof vest. This was a very unlucky shot for her. Because of the angle it went straight into her intestines, liver and kidney. There was nothing he could do, he knew. Not here, not without help and proper supplies.

"You know, doc…" the woman coughed, "I wanted to travel around the world after I was finished with my tour here. I wanted to spend days on a beach, just tanning and drinking cocktails. Relaxing, letting off the steam, you know. Maybe in Italy, or France, or _Spain_. I know you are going to Spain." She grabbed his arm and pulled him closer to her mouth. "_You do not deserve it, you know._" She shoved him away. Her voice was full of hatred and disdain. "_I should be the one going there. Not you. What did _you_ do to deserve it? Nothing. I was serving my country and this is my third tour. And you?_" She looked at him, hatred and blame in her eyes. "_You barely leave the camp and never risk your life to help others. You are just a coward who pretends to be a big hero._" She locked eyes with him once more and raised her shaking hand to point a finger at him. "_You do not deserve to go there. I do! You are not worthy of it. You have no right to think you did a good job here and this trip is some kind of reward. You are lying to yourself if you believe this. YOU. DO. NOT. DESERVE. TO. FORGET. MY. PAIN._"

John woke in cold sweat, heart pumping and wet sheets sticking to his body, tangled around his limbs. His shoulder hurt more than ever since he was back to London. He licked his lips to wet them and tasted something salty on them. He stood up, still shaking and went to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror and saw streams of tears running down his cheek. He looked like he saw a ghost. Well, he did. Sergeant McRory never was this violent in his dreams. But this time he knew she was right. He did not deserve the time for himself, the time to forget all the pain he saw over there.

He was about to turn down Harry's offer.

* * *

Next day Harry brought the tickets for John. What she saw in the flat wasn't what she expected.

„You haven't packed a single thing!" she exclaimed.

„Yeah, I know. I'm not going." John was in the kitchenette making tea for himself and offered one to Harry with waving a mug at her direction.

„No, thanks. But you said you're going! I can't believe you! John, don't be like this!" She was holding both her palms out towards John, trying to reach for him as if shaking some sense in her brother.

„Harry, I told you. I don't need it!" He poured the boiling water over the leaves and headed to his bed to drink his tea comfortably.

„I'm not asking for your opinion. I want to give it to you and you are going to accept it." She was persistent. Yesterday he said yes. There's no way she would let him pass this opportunity. Harry looked around in the room and clomped to John's wardrobe and started looking through his clothes.

„What on Earth are you doing?" John was on his feet now, placing the mug on the desk next to the bed and went next to Harry. He tried to drag her away from the clothes but she was strong and had her mind on the job.

„If you're not willing to pack your bag then I'll do it. You're going for 3 weeks, but will have the opportunity to wash your stuff if any of them gets dirty." With that she threw 5 pairs of jeans in a huge suitcase. „Let me see, you'll need shirts and shorts, too." She was biting her lower lip as she was scanning the content of the wardrobe.

„God, you don't take no for an answer, do you." John asked with a sigh, which almost sounded like he was giving in to Harry.

„Well of course I don't!" Harry turned to John and put her hand on his shoulder. „Johnny, you know that I want to help you here. I hate seeing you wandering around the city like a ghost. You do your job, you went out with me, but the flame in your eyes is not the same. You are here, but you aren't living. Please, go on this holiday, and relax. Find yourself and what you want from your civilian life when you get back. Please."

It was weird for them to be this honest with each other. John hardly recognised this young woman as his sister. She really wanted to make everything better for him – by her own means, of course.

„Okay, okay. I see what you mean. And for the record, don't think for a second that I believe you when you say it will help. But God, I need sunshine back in my life." John put his hand on Harry's hand on his shoulder and for a few moments they stood there looking at each other. At last John smiled at her and let his hand down to continue packing. „And do not touch my underwear, Harry. We're not 12." His voice was hard but his eyes were gleaming.

* * *

„You know, I'm perfectly capable of taking a cab and getting to the airport on my own." John looked at Harry who was sitting next to him in the cab. She was excited, and a little bit tipsy, as far as John could tell. Her fingers were knotted in her lap and she was staring out the window.

„Okay, Johnny, I know, but I wanted to say goodbye." She looked at him and he saw sadness in her eyes. True, since he came back, their relationship was better than ever and even he could feel the strange feeling of loss when he was thinking about leaving her here with all her problems.

„It's only three weeks, Harry." He put his hand on her knotted fingers and squeezed them a little. „And I invaded Afghanistan, don't forget that." She smiled at him and sniffed a little. John tried to hide his huffed laugh.

„I don't know why I'm getting this emotional. It makes no sense. But I feel like I got my brother back. The one I lost when we were small kids." And she hugged him, and held on to him tight.

„Okay, Harry, you're overdoing it. Everything will be all right, no need to worry." He petted her back and as he drew back the cab stopped in front of the terminal.

„Come on, let's get you on that plane." Harry rubbed her nose and jumped out of the cab.

They unloaded the boot, and headed to check in. When they were about to part ways, Harry hugged John again, squeezing him hard, sniffling.

„Harry, don't do this. There's no need to be this emotional." John just stood there awkwardly and stroked Harry's back.

„Yeah, you're right." Harry released him, blew her nose and smiled at him. „Have fun, be bad and careful with breaking hearts!"

John laughed. That was his sister, not the other one, the emotional wreck, sobbing on his shoulder. „Yeah, right, sis, all those things."

„And write me when something fun happens! I want to know about it!" Harry recovered quickly and she was smiling and laughing now, no trace of the sadness from before.

„I will." And with that, John turned to leave. He took a few steps and turned back. „And Harry…"

„Yes?" Harry was looking at him with her arms around herself tightly.

„Take care." They both knew what he meant. John tried to ease the edge of the topic with a half-smile and Harry nodded, waved at him.

John took a deep breath and walked through the gate.


	2. Chapter 2

„No, sir. I told you already. You are not allowed to enter this crime scene."

The young police constable cursed the day when he volunteered to help out at a crime scene where the infamous Sherlock Holmes could be present. Everyone knew he was impossible to work with: arrogant, ignorant about human emotions and erratic. Well, no, it's not entirely true. He knew how emotions worked, he just couldn't understand _why_ they worked like they did.

„I understood your words the first time, too. I just simply do not consider them right. Where is Dimmock?" Sherlock Holmes was pacing restlessly, rubbing his glove-covered hands together and shooting death-glares at the people around him.

„DI Dimmock is not at the scene, sir." The poor boy was turning red under the consulting detective's inquisitional look.

„Oh, for heaven's sake! If he's not here, then there is no one here with a slight amount of intelligence. What are you even doing working for the police, when you are clearly unable to understand the criminal mind?" and with that he turned around, his black coat floating behind him like a wave of water.

As he was leaving he pulled his phone from his pocket and started typing out a text message, not even looking at the keys, simply just staring ahead with a piercing look in his eyes.

_Is this because of the last case? – SH_

Dimmock took 15 minutes to answer. At that time he was already in the cab on his way to home.

_What do you mean?_

_I mean that I wasn't allowed on the crime scene and you weren't there. – SH_

_Yes, it is because of last time. You screwed that up._

_I simply corrected some of the victim's family's inaccurate beliefs on after life. –SH_

_Sherlock, you shouldn't have told the parents that their daughter won't go to heaven, but will start rotting in no more than 36 hours and they need to stop acting like a child._

_But that is the scientific explanation of 'after life'. –SH_

_Thank God they were only minor characters in the business life of Britain. I can't imagine what might have happened to you – and me, too – if they were some wealthy and influential politicians._

_And Sherlock. Try to stay away from cases while we're on suspension, would you?_

Sherlock didn't even bother replying to that. He was sure Dimmock knew the answer already.

Two weeks passed and he was still punished with not being able to enter the crime scene, just as Dimmock had to leave for a week. Sherlock had no doubt he was at least a bit happy to be able to get out of London and away from him for at least a short time.

But this thought didn't help Sherlock. He was bored and he had nothing to occupy his racing mind with. Until one day a familiar black car pulled over in front of his flat. Sherlock hated this. Why did _he_ always have to be so theatrical?

* * *

There was a soft knock on the door – handle of an umbrella – and Mrs. Turner, his land lady, opened the door. There were noises of pleasant small talk and then confident feet hitting the stairs, accompanied by the sound of the tip of an expensive umbrella gently touching them.

After a few moments the door of the flat was pushed open and the umbrella tapped lightly against the floor.

"What do you want?" Sherlock barked as an invitation.

"Nice to see you in your most formal, Sherlock. I am feeling rather well, thank you for your question." The man walked into the room and sat down on the sofa.

"Mycroft, what do you want?" Sherlock sat up on the couch, pulling the dressing gown closer around himself. He wasn't wearing anything under it because of the unusually hot summer day and the last thing he wanted was to flash naked body parts at his brother.

"DI Dimmock informed me that you have been suspended – just as the DI himself. And now you're in the middle of a heat wave without anything to do. You must be bored." Sherlock couldn't stand the smug smile playing on his brother's face. He knew perfectly well how bored Sherlock was and that there was nothing else he wanted to do than work and occupy his restless mind.

"What do you want?" Sherlock was getting tired of Mycroft's game. "I know it's not just a family visit, you have an obvious reason to be here and it must be related to your work. What do you want me to do for you this time?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him and flopped back on the couch.

"Have you heard of the casino and bank robberies throughout Europe?" Mycroft asked clearly fed up with beating around the bush.

"Yes, obviously. Why?" Sherlock looked at Mycroft and his eyes were gleaming. Did he seem interested? There was no point in showing Mycroft that he was intrigued or else he would be sitting there with an all-knowing smile on his pompous face.

"Well there will be a conference in Spain, in a popular holiday resort. Most of Britain's and Europe's leading businessmen will be there and –"

"And you think they might attempt to rob the casino at that hotel. Or the bank somewhere near."

"Look at you, dear brother, I haven't thought you would be this desperate. I should have come earlier." Mycroft was definitely enjoying Sherlock's misery. But Sherlock had no other choice. This was the first thing that was not boring.

"For God's sake, stop gloating, Mycroft and tell me what you want."

"I want your help. I want you to go there and help the local forces stop it."

"What makes you think I would accept a job like this?"

"Sherlock, there's no point denying it. You're bored beyond words. You need something to focus your mind on. And it would give you a chance to do undercover work. I would not want you to go there as a detective. The conference is in 9 days. You would have time to adjust and perfect your cover."

Sherlock had to admit, this job had its perks. 9 days of deceiving everyone around him, trying to hide his real self and adapting a new one for the purpose of finding the criminals there…

"If I accept this will you rub it in my face every day for the rest of my life?" Sherlock looked from the ceiling to his brother, but after he saw Mycroft tilting his head to the side and lifting an eyebrow, he started examining his long, slender fingers.

"Yes, probably. But as much as it pains me to admit, I need your help. I'm in no situation to mock you or play games, because this matter is top priority. I wouldn't have come here if I had any other choice." As he spoke, he glanced at the handle of his umbrella, at the skull on the mantel, almost everywhere but Sherlock. It was just as hard for him as it was for Sherlock. They weren't used to asking each other for help.

"Okay. I'll help, but on one condition." said Sherlock with an audible huff of disapproval in his voice. "When I'm back, I want everything to be arranged with the Yard as it was before. No matter how you do it, just do it."

Mycroft saw that Sherlock was serious about it, needed the distraction from his dull days.

"I think I can pull a few strings to make it happen." Mycroft gave his demure smile and stood up, leaning on his umbrella. "I'll send a car tomorrow at 10. Pack and be ready. Have a nice day and a pleasant journey, brother dearest." And with that he left the flat and a few moments later the front door closed behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

The hot and humid air caught John by surprise when he stepped out of the airplane. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and let the wind lick his face. Oh, how he missed the tropical weather. The only thing he hated in London was the awful lot of raining and the constant greyness. This was what he preferred – sunshine, mild breeze and there was something new, the smell of the sea. It was different from the smell in England. It must be because of the constant heat and sun that made it so different – so _good_.

He gathered his luggage – Harry couldn't stop herself, she packed two big and one smaller suitcases full with his clothes. She insisted on him bringing a three-piece suit – _suit for a summer holiday at a beach resort_! – his khaki woollen trousers, his best pairs of jeans and his most form-fitting shirts. Well, Harry clearly had a plan for him – she wanted to make sure he got laid. John couldn't blame her. Their 'pleasure hunt' – as John called those nights when Harry dragged him with her and her friends to local bars – wasn't one to be called successful. He called only few of the girls back after their first dates. Not because they haven't ended with sex, no. Some of the girls were more than willing to invite him in for a 'coffee', but he never accepted them. None of them were for his taste - they were attractive, but a bit shallow. He wanted someone he could have a meaningful talk with, not just small talk and a chat with no depth. Harry seemed not to care about this and would never give up so she packed all his best clothes to make sure he looked his best. The rest was his job. Well, he'd see.

With difficulty, he dragged his bags to a cab and gave the address of the hotel to the cabbie. He was a little worried when after 20 minutes of driving the number of houses were less and less and it seemed like they were leaving civilization behind. All his doubts vanished when he saw the huge entrance of the magnificent complex. The colours were matching perfectly – light brown walls with bricks decorating at the foot, terracotta rooftops and dark brown window frames. Palm trees were framing the stairs and the enormous wooden entrance door. There was a small fountain in the middle of the driveway, the sound of the splashing water in complete harmony with the chirps of the small birds that were drinking from it.

The cabbie parked at the foot of the staircase and helped him gather his luggage. A boy from seemingly nowhere grabbed the two huge suitcases and climbed the stairs and held the door open for John. When he entered he was shocked. Luxury and elegance radiated from every centimetre of the interior – shining tiles, huge, velvet covered furniture, thick carpets and colourful flowers in tasteful arrangements. John looked around and a few metres from the entrance he saw the massive wooden counter with a 'Reception' sign above it. He walked to the receptionist – beautiful, dark haired and eyed girl in her late twenties – and smiled at her.

"Good morning, sir. How can I help you?" Her smile was dazzling. _Damn, these three weeks are going to be fun_.

"I'd like to check in, please." John put the bags in his hands down and started fishing his paper out from his pockets.

"Do you have a reservation? I'm afraid without it we cannot give you a room."

"Oh, I have, yes. It's… umm… under the name Harriet Watson." _God, it was embarrassing_. John's shirt collar felt a little too tight.

"One moment, sir," said the girl – Esperanza, going by her name plate – and started typing on the keyboard in front of her. "Yes, there's a reservation for one Harriet Watson. It's for two persons."

"Yes, that's it." John felt agitated – there was something indescribable in the girl's eyes.

"It's the honeymoon suite, sir." And there it was. John stood there as he felt the heat flooding his face and neck. He wished he could give a better explanation than _my lesbian sister and her wife got this holiday as a wedding gift but they broke up and as I am an invalided army doctor who craves the same climate as there was in Afghanistan, she took pity on me and gave me the tickets and oh, by the way she packed me clothes I look like a womanizer in – yes, she packed my stuff – so here I am, give me my keys, thank you very much._

"Umm… Yes. I know, thank you." He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. _Just get over it, please._

"Well… um… Javier will help you with your luggage, sir. Your suite is at the back of the complex, next to the pool and the spa area. The tennis courts are to the left, and if you follow this path," she was showing it on a map that she produced from thin air, though John was a bit preoccupied so he was not sure "you can go to the beach. If you have any further questions or problems, the reception is open 24/7. Feel free to ask." The last few sentences were muffled a bit as she was looking down to check John's papers and type furiously on the keyboard. "Here are your keys, sir. Enjoy your stay here."

Javier packed his three suitcases on a trolley, put the keys in his pocket and headed towards the end of the building.

"This way, sir. Please, follow me."

They exited the foyer and went through a long corridor with elevators on both sides. At the end of the corridor was a huge French window that led to a spacious terrace with view over the sea. It was so stunning that John needed to stop for a few moments to admire it in silence. The sandy beach lay in front of him and stretched to both left and right. Small umbrellas were standing in the sand, sunbeds under each, and a wooden hut at the end of the lawn, where grass met sand.

A small cough from Javier dragged John back from his gawking. They went past two tennis courts, a swimming pool and a bunch of palm trees and got closer to a small lodge. It looked like a miniature version of the main building – same colours and architecture.

Javier opened the door, stepped in and put the suitcases down next to the door then waited. John got the hint and dug into his pocket to tip the young man.

"Thank you, sir, have a nice holiday," he said then turned around and left.

John looked around in the room for the first time. It was only the entrance hall but it was bigger than his flat. The tiles were shining; he could almost see his reflection in them. He grabbed the two large suitcases and headed to the bedroom, which was at the end of the hall. The king-size bed was in the middle of the room, with the headboard against the wall. The duvet's light champagne colour matched perfectly with the rooms dominating white, burgundy and egg yolk shades. He placed the bags at the foot of the bed and examined the room further. There were orchids - accommodating to the colour scheme of the room, of course - on the small desk in front of the huge French window, on the vanity table in the other corner next to the window and on the commode on the other side of the room. All pieces of furniture were carved from the same wood – mahogany – and decorated with the same style. Opposite the French window, on the other wall there was a door. John opened it and his eyes widened. It was the bathroom, with a bathtub as big as an inflatable pool. As he looked closer, he realised that it was a Jacuzzi. There were two mirrors and two sinks on the wall, shelves and drawers next to both one, flowers on the drawers. John couldn't help but think that it looked like the designer knew very well that the bedroom might be not the only room the newlyweds might want to break in.

He smiled at this thought and went back to the bedroom to unpack his suitcases. He was almost finished when he took his toiletries to the bathroom to unpack that, too, and he was taken aback when he opened it. Almost half dozen packages of condom and two tubes of lube slipped out of it. That definitely wasn't his doing. _Harry_. That was part of his sister devious plan to get him laid – making sure that he avoids any inconvenience. He packed the rest of the kit in the drawers and hid the packages in the drawer of his bedside table.

When he finished, he sat down on the bed and tried to process all the new information.

He was really here, in Spain, for three weeks. No one he knew, just him on his own. Far away from London, from his dull work and dreadful apartment.

* * *

The first week went by really fast.

He played tennis once, but he had to stop because his shoulder hurt really badly and his slight limp slowed him down, too.

After that he tried water-skiing which was exciting and thrilling. The instructor was a rather grumpy woman in her thirties, with frizzy hair and dark skin. Sally didn't seem like an enthusiastic tutor at all. John wondered how she got the job with her almost complete lack of knowing social formalities. But once she was driving the boat and John was on the skis, the speed and need of concentration swiped all his thoughts about her out of his mind. He could feel blood running through his veins and his body and mind relax. The adrenaline kept him in focus and he forgot time and space, he devoted himself completely to holding himself upright and jumping every time a wave tried to hit him off his skis.

The next day he went on a boat cruise that ended with scuba-diving. They spent almost an hour with observing different types of fish and other creatures of the sea.

He also spent hours every day at the spa area, getting every type of massage available, facial masks, manicure, pedicure and embarrassingly unmanly (unsoldierlike) things.

But despite all these things, he started to feel boredom overwhelming him.

That was until he met _him_.


	4. Chapter 4

When Sherlock exited the plane there was a man (_not local, English, judging by his pale complexion – though more tanned than the majority of the English population - spent longer period of time in Mediterranean climate_) already waiting for him, with a sign in his hands reading 'Holmes'. At least Mycroft showed a little respect not to reveal his identity. Of course he did, all this was part of his plan. _He_ needed Sherlock.

The man was in his early fourties, his dark brown – almost black – hair speckled with grey and white stripes. He looked handsome in a rough way; determined look on his face, broad shoulders, and steady posture. He was bored without doubt and scanned the terminal with impatient glances.

Sherlock walked towards him and when he saw Sherlock, he squared his shoulders, smoothed his dark suit and lifted his chin up.

"Sherlock Holmes?" he asked and held out his right hand for Sherlock to shake it.

"Sergeant." Sherlock looked him up and down and accepted his hand – _strong, firm grip, confidence_.

"It's _Detective Inspector_. Lestrade. New Scotland Yard." If it was possible, he straightened even more, trying to enhance his physical presence – _used to having to fight for his right, doesn't tolerate being objected_.

"How did he make you do this?"

"Who and what?" He didn't ask what he was talking about, clearly he had some idea about what Sherlock was talking about, and he just needed to be sure. Repetition. _Dull_.

"My brother. How did he manage to coax you into this? Into leaving England – and judging by your complexion you've arrived at least a week ago. So I'm asking you, what did he do? _How_ did he do it?"

Lestrade's thoughts were written on his face as clearly as if Sherlock could read his mind. _God, there's two of them_.

"I owed him one." He shrugged and looked around nervously, running his hand over his nape.

A DI at Scotland Yard owed Mycroft a favour. That was interesting. Why on Earth would his brother help a policeman, who's not even a Detective Superintendent? _Need more data_.

"Can we go now? I was instructed" _instructed … by whom? Mycroft_? "to show you around at the hotel. You'll meet your colleagues and get a few directions about your job. Follow me." And with that he turned around and headed to the parking lot.

"What is _your_ disguise?" Sherlock asked when Lestrade started the car.

"I'm the head of the security team. Mr Holmes got me a job here so nobody knows I work for the Yard. He wrote an extraordinary recommendation which is mostly full of lies, of course – I have no computer skills and I've never written a computer programme, security or other."

While Sherlock listened to Lestrade speaking, he couldn't miss the way he said Mycroft's name. Like his brother was someone _grand_, someone who could do or get done anything he wanted to. Well, Lestrade was right in that, Sherlock thought. Look at _him,_ sitting in a car in Spain…

"I'm sure that's how you got _your _job here, right?" Lestrade had a knowing smile on his face when he glanced at Sherlock but turned his head so rapidly that Sherlock had no time to observe it thoroughly.

"I have no information about my job." Sherlock sounded hurt even to himself. He knew that, knowing Mycroft, his job would be hideous but he felt aggrieved that Mycroft seemed to have informed Lestrade about the job his brother was going to have, but Sherlock was left without any information.

"Oh, you'll see as soon as we're at the hotel." Another smirk. Lestrade clearly enjoyed his helplessness. Sherlock started to see what the common thing between him and Mycroft was; they shared the passion of seeing Sherlock out of his league – not knowing and not being able to deduce anything.

They spent the rest of the ride in silence, Lestrade only looking at Sherlock every other minute. Sherlock was looking out the window and examining the surroundings – they drove through the city and were heading east towards a luxurious and private hotel. The building was tasteful and boasted all the clichés of a Spanish hacienda – colours, shapes, angels and even the plants in the garden.

Lestrade parked the car at the back entrance of the main building and a young man in a bright burgundy vest opened the boot and lifted out Sherlock's suitcases the pavement.

"I'll show you your room and then introduce you to your co-workers." said Lestrade and nodded to the man who piled the suitcases up on a trolley and rolled it through the door and disappeared.

Lestrade led Sherlock through another door; they went through the lobby and exited the main building. Well, Sherlock expected that as a worker he would not stay in the main building among the guests, though it would have been much easier to keep an eye on them that way. Mycroft could have arranged it – if he wanted, that is. Payback for all the small things Sherlock did to annoy his brother…

They reached a small house on the left side of the main building that had the same architecture as the bigger one. There were at least 20 smaller apartments inside – flats for those workers who stayed here throughout the whole summer. When Lestrade opened the door for Sherlock to enter, a young woman in her thirties stormed out of it, not looking up or saying a thing.

"Sally! Come back in 15 minutes and tell everyone that I want them to be in the main room." Lestrade yelled after her. She just waved her hand dismissively and didn't even turn around to look at him.

"Welcome to the staff's quarters," smiled Lestrade a bit nervously and let Sherlock in.

The interior was similar to the lobby's, but it was simpler and more reserved, no flashy luxury, just practical items. The entrance door led into a wide and bright hall, with glass walls looking to the sea and a door that connected this building with an identical one next to it. The far end of the foyer narrowed, with a common room and a gym on both sides. The staircase was at the end of the corridor which led to the upper floor.

Lestrade gestured towards Sherlock and went to the door. The door led to a similar interior, though the entrance hall was smaller in this building. Lestrade climbed the stairs but didn't stop on the first landing, went ahead to the second floor. On each floor there were 5 apartments on each side of the corridor. The numbering contained a Roman numeral, an Arabic numeral and two different letters – building, door and something else, which Sherlock wasn't entirely sure of. The DI walked to II.21.A/B and opened the door. It became clear why there were two letters; behind the main door there were two separate rooms, room A and B.

Lestrade entered II.21.B and Sherlock could see that his luggage was already there. The room was small, not bigger than 6 square metres, but had a private bathroom and a tiny kitchenette. The single bed was parallel to the wall running into the furthest corner, a small bedside table and a lamp next to it. Beside the opposite wall was a wardrobe with a mirror in one of its doors. Next to it was the kitchenette; sink, coffee machine, toaster, kettle, hob and a drawer. A few steps away from the bed was a door, probably to the bathroom. Sherlock opened it and took a look; a sink, a bathtub, a cupboard, a mirror and a toilet. Neat, just like the rest of the apartment. _Not bad_.

"You have 10 minutes to unpack because I want you to meet my team in the common room" said Lestrade, interrupting Sherlock's observation.

"You said nobody knows you're from the Yard, yet you have a team. If you needed to gather a team, this case must be bigger than what Mycroft had mentioned to me." Sherlock closed the door of the bathroom and went to his bags to put his belongings in their suitable places.

"You will know about everything while you help our work. But we have to meet the team. Get ready." And with that Lestrade left and closed the door behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

After 15 minutes, Sherlock locked his door and went back to the other building to meet the Detective Inspector and his 'team'. What sort of team was it? Local people who wanted to play detectives? Or police officers? If the latter, than this case definitely deserved Sherlock's attention.

When he entered the common room, he was surprised to see a familiar face among the 5 people there.

"Dimmock. What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, startled.

"Good evening, Sherlock. It's nice to see you, too." Dimmock wasn't even surprised to see him there. Apparently, his abrupt leave wasn't because of Sherlock's last 'scene', as the DI called it, but because of a new case. Did Dimmock know that sooner or later Sherlock was going to be involved? Not that he would care, Sherlock assumed.

"So you know each other. That's nice." said Lestrade and moved towards Sherlock to guide him in and close the door. "But you might not know the rest of us. Meet Sergeant Donovan." Lestrade waved towards the woman who burst through the door when they had entered the building earlier. _Darker complexion, in her thirties, ruffled hair, exhausted, single – no, not single, though not in a relationship – lover, then._

"Sergeant." Sherlock nodded in greeting but he could see that this woman already had suspicions regarding him.

"Mr Holmes." Her voice was flat and impersonal, totally indifferent.

"Her cover is a water ski trainer." Lestrade continued and Sherlock needed all his willpower not to laugh out loud because even _he_ knew that that would be terribly unacceptable.

"This is Anderson, he volunteered to help us gather information from the staff so he works with the pool cleaners." _Oh God, you have got to be kidding me! _Sherlock had at least thirty biting retorts to that. _And he even volunteered! Stupid._ But he didn't say a thing; he just put on his best neutral expression and shook the grouchy man's calloused hand. _Early fourties, married, marriage in ruins, has a lover – perhaps Sgt. Donovan? - intelligence not above average._

"And here is Molly Hooper, she is with the event organizers. She feeds us with data about what happens, where and when and also about the attending guests." The mousy young woman held out her hand shyly and smiled up at Sherlock. _Late twenties or early thirties, lives alone, has a cat, has few friends, desperate for a relationship._

"Miss Hooper." Sherlock took her hand and tried for one of his least fake smiles.

"Everyone, as I said, we have Sherlock Holmes here to help our work. He works as a consulting detective for Scotland Yard and has solved a few cases where our officers hit dead end." Lestrade strode next to Sherlock, but was careful not to touch him, so just lifted his hand to his back, leaving a few centimetres in between.

_Few cases. More like a few dozen…_

"What is it that you need my help with?" Sherlock was tired of the introduction and the mutual happiness and needed actual information.

"Okay, let's fill in Mr Holmes." Lestrade instructed and the others started rummaging with papers taken from a huge briefcase, turned on laptops and flat screen TVs, and pulled the curtains towards the hall closed.

"As you might know, we have a series of bank and casino robberies throughout the costal holiday resorts. The number - and I think I might add, so far – is two banks and three casinos, each in different cities." Lestrade started presenting the basic intel and tossed five folders towards Sherlock. He opened each one of them and read through the highlighted parts; all crimes had a similar plan – one person kept the clerk/security guard busy (_presumably woman who disarmed them with her charm_, added Sherlock to his mental notes); at least one person who was in the bank/casino when the robberies happened and provided help from the inside (_possibly the leader of the team_); and 4 or 5 men with firearms (no visual evidence for that) who carried out the actual robbery (_legwork_).

"The only person who was present every time is this man." A black-and-white security footage appeared on a TV screen and showed a sharply dressed man in an expensive suit and shoes. "This was taken at the night before the first casino robbery," Lestrade pointed at the date flicking at the corner of the screen.

The man on the picture was in his thirties (_35__th__ birthday in a couple of weeks_), around 180 centimetres tall, darker fair hair (_probably dark blonde_), dark eyes (_most likely blue or green_), broad shoulder and tanned skin. His smile was dazzling; all white– could be seen even on a black-and-white picture – and perfect teeth. Two women in much-revealing clothes were hanging on his arms, grinding themselves to him.

"He checked in at the two hotels using the name Jimmy Carter. The receptionists both confirmed that he's American and has an American passport. He mostly played poker and lost around 2500€ at each place. He seemingly paid no attention to how much he was losing and played rather badly." _It probably was not a coincidence_, _then_, Sherlock thought.

"He stayed a couple of days before each robbery, and we suppose that he may plan to strike during the conference so we think he'll be here at the end of this week or maybe next week. The local police support us completely; they are to be mobilized at any time." Lestrade finished his summary and looked up at Sherlock, who was sitting in silence, in his thinking position – fingers forming a triangle under his chin.

"How many men do you have here to watch him?" Sherlock turned his attention back to the conversation and to Lestrade.

"Well, we all."

"You mean the six of us?" Sherlock suspected that there were just a few men to work for Lestrade here, but 6 people in a facility this big… It demanded more work for each of them than he was willing to sacrifice.

"Yes, Sherlock." Lestrade looked around in the room, eyed everyone and changed the subject. "And now some info about our jobs. As I said, Anderson works with the pool staff. They're mostly local teenagers. Donovan spends most of her days out on the sea, meeting guests and people who are not staying at the hotel. Molly, as I said, knows about all the events and the attendees. Dimmock is my right hand; he's with me in the security team. We have access to security footages, lists of phone calls and almost immediate background checks for the players at the casino – of those who have previous criminal records, of course."

"All well, but what is my job? Acting as the manager?" Sherlock knew his job would require his special observational skills and assumed that he would work _inside_ the hotel. He was surprised beyond words when Lestrade told him, without any trace of mocking in his voice.

"You will be one of the lifeguards, of course. Perfect for collecting information from young women – and men – because who would not blabber about others to a young and fit man in swimming shorts." Lestrade was definitely smirking at the end of the sentence. _Perfect_.

"When you get back to your room, you'll find your uniform in your room. I will not accept any objections about it. Good night, Sherlock." And with that, Lestrade clutched the folders under his arms and left. The others followed suit, collecting everything and leaving Sherlock alone among the forest of empty chairs.

When he got back to his room, there was a package on his bed. He opened it with obvious doubt and peeked into the bag. A name tag sat on top of a bright red pair of board shorts with embroidery of the logo of the hotel. _Ah, Mycroft was playing dirty_. Making Sherlock wear these all day long. He just hoped no one would make embarrassing photos of him…


	6. Chapter 6

3 boring days went – actually, dragged –by, spent with mostly relaxing on the beach and reading one of his medical journals that he hadn't had time to read at home, when something _interesting_ happened.

John was lying under a huge umbrella and stared absent-mindedly at a group of divorcees enjoying the sun in the water, as they were sitting – more like floating around – in colourful swim rings, looking… well, hot. Drops of water ran down their long and tanned legs, their breasts looking edible in those small bikinis. _God, I need to get laid_, he thought while his eyes were glued to the desirable bodies – because they were only bodies for him, no more – in the water.

He was dragged back to Earth by a sudden burst of noises. Voices, to be precise; he could hear at least two people who were arguing with each other rather animatedly. He turned around to look at them and absorbed the novelty of a scene playing out in front of him, not more than 10 metres away.

"I told you, there is no need to yell at me. I understood you perfectly. I just simply couldn't be bothered to answer you."

"But you are supposed to be helping people! She was terrified and she could have drowned there."

"Oh, please, it was only a medusa." He threw his hands up in the air and simultaneously rolled his eyes. "The only thing that could have caused her death is her uncontrollable flailing and her rather over-active imagination. One sting couldn't have killed her."

"I don't know who gave this job to you, but they definitely made a terrible mistake." And with that, the stout woman dragged the shaking young girl away from the stunning man. He was dressed in the hotel's red uniform – and it hung low on his hip, hipbones moving visibly under his skin with every shift of his body. He was strikingly pale for a lifeguard who spent his summer in the sun, but his dark curls gave a beautiful contrast to his skin colour. His blue eyes followed the woman as she stumped in the sand, leaving little puffs of fine sand in the air, then rolled his eyes once again and turned to go back to his watch post. On his way, he swept his eyes over the people who watched the argument and John felt his eyes wide, when those piercing eyes locked with his. He felt embarrassed for staring at him not just for a few moments, but all his strength left him and he couldn't turn his head away.

The other man raised an eyebrow at him – _God, he looked seductive! _-, and stalked to his chair under a bright red umbrella. He lifted up a book or a journal, John wasn't sure from this distance, and started reading, paying absolutely no attention to what was happening around him. Well, his work ethics left much to be desired, John would give the woman that. But that was the last thing that came to John's mind when he looked at the man sitting gracefully in the ridiculous red folding chair, with one of his shapely legs bent over his other knee.

John forgot the divorcees splashing water at each other rather quickly, when the sight of this man hit him. And his _voice_… John couldn't help but think how it might sound when he used it to seduce people, how efficient he might be._ 'Ah, Harry would say he's a chick magnet. She'd probably be right'_, he thought. He knew he shouldn't be thinking such thoughts about a strange man, but it was all because of his damned sexual frustration and lack of sexual partners for more than 6 months now. Though there was something refreshing about the lifeguard's rather insulting behaviour, too; not the usual fawning attitude hotel workers had when they anticipated tips from the guests.

John hoped that with the appearance of this man, the remainder of his time would be less dull.

* * *

Lestrade gave him a rather amused look when he entered the common room for their morning meeting. He told Sherlock what his schedule would be, where he should go and basically treated him like an incompetent imbecile. '_As if I had no idea what a lifeguard's job is…' _

When Lestrade said everything he wanted to – "Mr Holmes, please, do your best to look like this is what you've been doing your whole life. And I mean the lifeguarding, not the undercover work." – Sherlock went back to his room to change his clothes.

He hated the uniform as soon as he put it on – well, he hated it from the moment he'd seen it. The only consolation he had was that _he wasn't_ one for having constant fights with bodyweight and he looked acceptable in it. He put on a thick coat of sunscreen (50 SPF, thank you very much), though he did not intend to spend any time under direct sunlight. He looked at his reflection in the mirror on the bathroom door once again, twisted his lips in distaste. He put his backpack on his shoulder, grabbed his name tag, hung it around his neck and left the room.

The weather was hot and humid, though it was only around 9 o'clock ('_God, the last time I got up this early…'_). He went straight to the locker rooms that were situated between the sandy shore and the main building, where grass met sand. Lestrade said that he should look for the storage room, where he would find his 'float', the life saving device the lifeguards used here. The room was right next to the main door, and when he opened the door, a lifebelt that hung above a shelf next to the door almost hit him in the face. He barely had time to duck his head and after a swing, he caught it to make it stop. After that he examined the room and saw the float. It was the same red colour as the uniform, so it wasn't hard to pick out. When he picked it up, he turned it around a few times, then clutched it under his armpit and left the room, then the building. He went straight to the red umbrella on the beach, on which yellow letters formed the word 'salvavidas'.

He put the float and his name tag down, sat on the ugly folding chair, and stretched his legs out – careful not to reach further than the shade of the umbrella. From his bag he pulled out a medical journal to finish reading an article about a new way to detect intentional contradictions between facial expressions and verbal statements.

He was captivated by the possible use of this new technique, when suddenly a fat woman appeared in front of him, splashing and spitting water everywhere while her face grew purple. She was talking about a medusa, her daughter, Sherlock's obvious lack of interest in other's well-being and some kind of lawsuit and an intention to make Sherlock's life a living hell.

Sherlock handled the situation as he always did, and told the woman that _he_ wasn't the one being impossible and that he'd handled the situation perfectly. The woman left him with angry shouts and accusations – because they were accusations, weren't they? – so he could turn back to his reading.

When he looked over the astonished faces, he stopped his scanning and stared directly into the eyes of a man. He was in his mid-thirties, travelled alone – possibly in hope of finding women with rather loose morals to share his bed with – and was bored out of his mind. He flushed a little as Sherlock's eyes rested on him. Why was he feeling embarrassed? Because he was staring at him and got caught or because he felt ashamed for staring at _him_, a man, when there were 6 women in scarce clothing playing in the water? _Interesting_. At least there was something – someone – who was a tiny bit interesting. As Sherlock continued to watch the blond man's every move, he felt a steady growth of the well-known sensation – boredom. Not even this man was interesting to him.

At least for a couple of hours, until he bumped into his boss on his way back to his room – his actual boss, not Lestrade, but the man who coordinated the work of the hotel's staff – who told him that he was about to help out that evening at a dancing event. Sherlock thought he would have to set tables and watch doors, but he was surprised when the boss asked him about his dancing abilities.

A little taken aback, he told him that yes, he knew how to dance, and yes, he participated in ballroom dance courses – one of the darkest times of his teen years, when Mummy wanted him to be a good party for socially acceptable girls throughout England. He was then shoved into a locker-room full of Spanish _machos_, who were changing from their standard uniforms into tight black shirts and black trousers that were a bit too tight for Sherlock's taste.

He was cataloguing the people around him, trying to deduce why the hell was he of all people needed, but the only thing he could observe was the obvious – the hotel was almost full and the staff was not enough for the party. Sherlock would have put his life on it that Mycroft will know about him dancing with the guests in about 10 minutes after it happened.

But he had no more than a few minutes to stew in his own juice when Molly jogged to his side and threw him a scornful look.

"Why are you still wearing your clothes?" She looked like she needed all her restraint not to tap her foot.

"I'm rather sure this is neither the time nor the place to be nude, Molly," Sherlock didn't even spare a glance at her, just idly scanned the room, occasionally admiring a round form of a male behind when one of the soon-to-be dancers bent over.

"Of course I don't want you to be nude, Sherlock," Molly squeaked. "You should be getting changed." And with that she threw clothes at him and pushed a pair of shining black shoes in his hands, while he was staring at her. "When you finish, follow the others and they'll tell you what to do and where to go." She turned on her heels and left Sherlock there to silently curse all the gods and higher powers that allowed this shame to be brought on him.

When he came out of his reverie, he looked around and went to sit down on a bench to change is clothes. Not surprisingly, they all fitted him perfectly; Sherlock was sure that his dear brother was more than happy to provide the organizers with any information needed. It altered Sherlock's hypothesis about Mycroft only knowing after the programme started – it was obvious that his overeager brother already knew that this dreadful event - probably delightful for Mycroft - would also involve Sherlock as a dancer, who'd have to entertain the guests.

Sherlock smoothed his clothing as he stood up and left the locker-room with the other men. They passed the dining area on their way and entered a dimly lit hall that was framed by two rows of tables and chairs all around the walls. The dancers walked to the tables at the far end of the hall where the tables were a bit further away from the wall and several chairs and small desks were situated for the entertainers in one corner. Some of them grabbed a bottle of water from the tables and drank mouthfuls of it, others sat down and chatted. Women joined the men, who looked mesmerizing in their dark burgundy dresses that hugged their figures like a second skin. Their hair was pulled back to a soft chignon, and their slender ankles led the onlooker's eyes to muscular calves and a few inches wide area of smooth skin on their thighs.

After a couple of minutes the guests started emerging through the door from the dining area and the room filled with noises while the band, that was next to the dancers' resting place, started playing a soft tune.


	7. Chapter 7

Around 6 o'clock John gave up all hope that he could entertain himself any further. He read all the newspapers and journals he brought to the beach and after 2 hours the interesting lifeguard left his post and went back towards the main building. John had to admit that once or twice in every ten minutes he stole a glance in his direction. At first, he didn't know why he kept looking at the man; he assumed that he wanted some diversion and this strange man seemed like someone who loathed monotony. But nothing happened, the man sat still and read, just like John did. _Except he wasn't staring at you, _John chided himself. It was still strange for him that the man attracted him this much. He told himself that the only thing that drew him to the man was his strange and refreshing behaviour and the fact that he apparently didn't give a damn about what he was supposed to do or say and what other people thought about him. John didn't even think about him as _sexually_ attractive, though he knew the man was bloody gorgeous, he had eyes, thank you very much, even though he had them for women only. He wasn't gay, after all. But something about this man was exciting – the way he held himself, the way he moved with an unbelievable amount of self-confidence. He envied it a bit, John thought; he would have loved to be able to walk like he knew everyone was drawn to him because he was confident and a bit unreachable. John had had his luck with the ladies, he knew that and was proud of it. It wasn't a coincidence he was nicknamed "three continents". But he also knew that he had to work hard for that; he hadn't the looks of a model on the cover of GQ, he had an average face. He had to use his charm, talk his way through women's first resistance. When he looked at the lifeguard he knew that man could get anyone he wanted just because of his looks. And he envied the easiness he could get anything he set his mind to. And John wanted to see that happen. At least that was what he told himself.

Up until the lifeguard left, John hadn't realised, that the novelty of this man wasn't the only thing that attracted John; as he bent over to collect his bag, John couldn't help but roam his eyes over those long legs – from ankles to knees and partly clad thighs – and up to first, than the other roundly shaped arse cheek. John couldn't blame this on his boredom anymore, he had to admit that this man was attractive – strangely and not classically so – and he wanted to know more about him, so he _decided_ he would do his best to get closer to the lifeguard. This thought startled him because never in his life had he wanted to know a man this much. He was unpredictable, an enigma and apart from that, he had the looks of a Greek god. John never cared about labels and sexual identifications, but this man made him think. It had happened a few times back in the army, he had to admit. In the showers and in the barracks it was hard not to meet half-dressed and naked men. Army men, with well-shaped and scarred bodies. John remembered one time when they had had to go on a patrol and they had found a small oasis on their way. The day had been hot and warm wind had been blowing, the clothes of the 6 men had stuck to their bodies and their faces had been almost black from the sand that had mixed with their perspiration on their cheeks. He couldn't remember whose idea it had been, but after a few minutes of hesitation, all of them had started getting undressed and had run into the small pond that had been surrounded by palm trees. John had been the last one to drop his clothing and he had watched as the others had bent down to pull their boots off; their tight bodies drawing John's attention. When they had been in the water, they'd pushed each other under the surface and the occasional touch of thighs and bums and other parts against him hadn't been revolting at all. He hadn't minded it. It had been the army, after all; men sticking together through hard times and it hadn't been the place for being self-conscious about your body. Thinking about it now, John realised that it had had to be more. Some of the guys had flinched away when he had swum too close to them, but John hadn't been the one to mind brushing legs and hands. He was starting to feel that his attraction to the lifeguard shouldn't be a surprise now, considering how he had reacted to men in the army. But those had been his mates, comrades. And it had been natural, feeling close to them; emotionally and physically. But this attraction to the lifeguard was different and it made John a bit uneasy. He wasn't into men, he thought.

He realised that the journal he was holding was in his lap now and the small breeze moved the pages of it back and forth and the sound of it brought him back from his reverie. He stood, collected his things and went back to his room.

When he entered the dining room after he got changed into his favourite khaki trousers and dark green shirt – he knew he looked more like a soldier than a tourist, but he had been to be a soldier, hadn't he? – he was surprised to see that it was rather empty, although it was well after 8 o'clock.

He had taken his time in his room because he couldn't help but enjoy the vast Jacuzzi that had looked so inviting every time he entered the bathroom, so he'd spent almost half an hour in the water while he'd listened to a collection of 80's rock music. While he'd been dressing up he'd remembered Harry's words that he should find a woman – or two, for that matter – to enjoy himself, so he'd done his best to look agreeable. He'd run his fingers through his hair, had smoothed his shirt as he'd cast a look at his reflection in the mirror, turned around to collect his wallet and keys and left.

Most of the tables were free, only two couples sat together in a far corner, chatting and enjoying themselves noisily. He went straight to the counter and he lifted each and every lid that kept the meals warm on the serving tables. When he finished he went back to the first tray and started piling food on his plates – nobody could say that he wasn't thorough and he did it with clinical precision. When he finished he sat down and ate in silence, not looking up from his plates. After cleaning them, he stood up and headed to the beach to take a walk when he heard music coming from the huge hall next to the dining room. He directed his strides to go look for the source of the music and came to a halt at the door of the big hall to let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the room. Silhouettes of swaying couples started forming in front of his eyes, while he could see other shapes sitting at tables and standing around the tables. At the other end of the hall a band was on a stage, all musicians in sharp suits and polished black shoes. The singer was a stunning woman in her early forties, dressed in a sparkling bright red dress with soft chocolate brown waves falling on her shoulders and bare back. John was drawn closer to the stage and leant against an unoccupied table, enjoying the steady rhythm of the dancing couples swaying and turning in front of him while the velvety voice of the beautiful singer seeped into his ears and set his hips moving. He looked over the room and could see lots of lonely women sitting alone at the tables and at the bar. All of them were dressed impeccably, some of them with the clear intention of attracting the attentions of bachelors just like him. He thought he recognized the women from the beach who were scanning the room in prospect of prey.

John didn't like this new change in powers and roles – he considered himself an old fashioned guy. Of course it was refreshing to see a woman taking the first step, he had to admit. But nothing could compare to the feeling of _power_ and _control_ when he talked a woman into following him up to his room. His thoughts were interrupted by someone squeaking and then laughing loudly on the dance floor not far from him. He looked in the direction of the source, but his head suddenly stopped when he noticed a mop of dark curls and a strikingly pale profile. _It's him_. He was wearing the same clothes as the other entertainers, John realized with a bit of a shock, and he looked bloody fine in them. Every muscle of his thighs was visible through the fine fabric of the black trousers and his arse swung deliciously as he moved with the music. John was startled by his train of thoughts, but he couldn't pay more attention to them as he scanned over the dancing pair. A posh elderly woman clung to the man vehemently, her hands wandering all over his back and brushing over his firm arse. His shoulders visibly stiffened when the hands swept over the parts below his belt and John was almost sure that the cougar – because he was certain that she was a cougar – rubbed her thigh between the man's thighs. John couldn't help but admire his tolerance; judging from what John saw earlier that day, he would have said that the other was an abrupt and impatient man, but right now he endured the elder woman's unvarnished attention.

The song ended and John's palms were twitching to be able to hold that man in his arms and lead him around the room. That made him even more confused and he was lost in his thoughts when he was interrupted by a busty blonde girl who sat on the table next to him.

"A cute guy like you shouldn't be sitting here alone." She leant closer and whispered in his ear. "Why aren't you dancing with a hot girl who'd be more than willing to spread her legs for you after one song?"

John was shocked to hear these blunt words and reluctantly turned his gaze away from the mystery man to observe the girl. She was small and curvy, lovely breasts peeking out from her cleavage, a chocker accentuating her slender neck. Well, judging by her looks she was one of those willing girls.

"Did my sister send you here?" John studied her face – young and honest, playful and a little provoking. She definitely knew how to approach and charm men and she had every right to be confident. "You both seem to think that a holiday in a sunny place should end with me banging as many girls as I can encounter." He thought answering honestly was the fair thing to do after she was rather forthcoming.

"No, she didn't but I think I like her already. She probably knows that with your charm it's rather hard to resist you." She had a drink in her hand and had lifted it up to her lips while she was speaking and now took a sip and looked at John from under her eyelashes.

"You're not bad yourself," answered John and immediately cursed himself for not being able to come up with a better response.

"Well you should see it for yourself someday," she winked and left him to gape after her in utter shock.

_I need a drink_, he thought and walked to the bar, trying to avoid dancers who swung in front of him. He asked for a glass of beer and sat on a barstool when the bartender handed him his drink. He was just staring straight ahead at the dancers, not seeing anything just looking, when someone jogged his elbow, almost knocking his drink out of his hand.

"Oh, I am sorry. Did it spill on you? Let me help you." A small Spanish woman dived head first in his lap with a small towel in her hand – _where did she get it? _– and started wiping his lap with determined strokes.

"It's… it's okay. Just… please… no need…" He grabbed her arms and tried to push her away from between his legs.

"I'm really sorry," she said as she straightened up. "It's not the best way to introduce yourself, right?" Her face was flushed and her eyes kept wandering back to the wet spot.

"It really is okay. That's one of the easiest ways to get a beautiful woman to busy herself in my lap." _God, did I just say this? It sounded like a cheesy line from a disastrous porn movie._

"Oh, I doubt you need to resort to that. With a smile like yours, I bet women are standing in line to get themselves busy." She cast a thorough up and down look at him, turned to the bartender and ordered a Martini for herself and a new bottle for John.

"You'd be surprised." He held his bottle up and clinked it to her glass. "Scars don't attract many women."

"You've probably been looking at the wrong women. Some do love rough boys." She smiled and her pink tongue darted out to run along her teeth.

"Do tell me where I could find women like them," he asked and leant closer to her, her hair tickling his nose.

"There are a few in this room," she replied and put her hand on John's forearm, drawing tiny circles with her manicured fingers, her nose almost touching John's ear as she leant even closer.

John looked at her hand on his arm then up at her, her mouth inches away from his. He could smell the sweetness of her drink on her breath as she opened her mouth to wet her lips with her tongue.

"Carmen!" A rough male voice cut through the music, and the woman yanked herself away from John. He was too surprised to do anything, but sit back and clench and unclench his free hand. "¿Qué estás haciendo, mujer?" She jumped off the stool and put her hand on the giant's - man's - chest and murmured something to him as he stared at John with deadly determination in his eyes.

"Sorry, mate. I didn't mean to… I didn't know… I wasn't going to…" John just stuttered as he hopped off the chair and held up his hands, trying to calm the jealous man. The Spanish man put a possessive arm around the woman's hip and kissed her with a lot of passion – and tongue - and John just stood there and watched them. He was torn between being embarrassed about trying to hit on a woman who was clearly rather fond of her boyfriend and being there and watching as the man (hands still on her hips, mouth and tongue still on and in her mouth) dragged his girlfriend back into the crowd, where they started grinding against each other, not breaking the kiss.

John had no idea how long he has been standing there, because he couldn't hear the music as he was still lost in his thoughts about his luck, or rather misfortune. He staggered back to his stool and ran his fingers through his hair, pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a shaking breath. God, he wasn't easy to scare, but a lot of worse case scenarios ran through his mind in those few moments. The man could have broken more than one of his ribs with only one blow of his fist. He was huge!

"Didn't get lucky, did you?"

John let his hand fall from his face to look up and see who was standing next to him now and his hand stopped in mid-air. The lifeguard supported himself on his elbow, his ankles crossed as he leant against the counter. His shirt was soaking and stuck to his chest, his bare skin glistening with sweat where the two top buttons were undone. The sleeves of his burgundy shirt were rolled up to his elbows and John could see fading red scars on his left arm where his upper arm met his forearm. Ex-junky, John thought. That was certainly something he didn't expect.

"And it was the second time this night. And it's only…" he looked at his watch and said "9.30. Not my night, I guess." He took a sip from his bottle and gestured with the bottle towards the man.

"No, thanks, not on duty." He was making a face as he said the last word and John thought that _this_ was the man he'd seen on the beach that day, the man who loathed the job he had here.

John smiled at him sympathetically, but his smile faded as soon as the man looked at him seriously and a bit curiously and asked "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John narrowed his eyes and raised his chin. "Excuse me?"

The man rolled his eyes. "I don't need any of that. I asked a simple question; Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. But how do yo—"

"It's simple, isn't it?"

"Well not for me. How did you know? Do I know you?"

"Oh please." He waved his hand and looked John straight in the eye. "You obviously don't, and I know because I saw it."

"That I'd been in Afghanistan?" John was shell-shocked and tried to think of a way how this man could know who he is. Looking at him now, he resembled someone John met somewhere, once.

"No, we had never met," he said as though answering John's thoughts. "When that man had confronted you, you'd jumped off the stool to be able to defend yourself with your whole body. That'd been a reflexive reaction to a threatening situation, learnt through years of being in danger and unpredictable situations. Your palms had been facing the other man as you'd talked to him, clear sign of friendliness and meaning no harm. You might have done it unintentionally, but I'd say it'd been due to training where you'd learnt how to handle people without any verbal help. When the man had left I'd seen that you'd lowered your left hand and your right hand had reached towards your shoulder as you might have done if you would have had a gun in your hand and a strap holding it in place on your shoulder. Then when you'd realised that you'd done this, you'd rubbed it and I'd seen how your left arm had trembled. It hadn't felt good; I'd say an injury there. When I'd got closer I'd seen that there's a tanning line at your wrists and around your neck. Had spent time in the sun fully clothed, then. Even _you_ wouldn't be so dumb to go sunbathing with long sleeves. This applies to your legs, too. Uniform, then. I also noticed that you are not entirely comfortable with your hairstyle as you had to run your fingers through it several times when you'd felt sweat plastering it to your forehead. It might be because the hairdresser who'd cut it hadn't been good with the scissors, but I'd risk to say that it is longer than what you used to have, what you had been used to. So where would you acquire skills in how to handle foreign people, hold guns, get injured – shot, to be precise – walk around in a uniform under direct sun and have really short hair for a long time? In the army, which means you are a soldier. Where are troops stationed right now or in the past few months where sun is shining most of the time? Afghanistan and Iraq. So you see my question was rather obvious."

John realised that his hand was still in the air throughout the man's speech and he put it on his thigh awkwardly. Without looking away from the man he felt for his bottle of beer, almost knocked it over, but was lucky enough to grab it in time and brought it to his lips to take a sip.

"That was amazing. How the hell did you do that?" Never in his wildest dreams – not that he had any dreams about this man, no – has he thought that the man could do _this_; tell his life story just from glancing at him. He shook his head in disbelief and the corners of his mouth curved up into an involuntary smile.

"I told you," the man rolled his eyes. "I observed and deduced."

"That was extraordinary. Do you always start a conversation like this?" John was resting his chin in his hand now, his elbow on the wood of the counter.

"No, I usually don't speak to people," answered he, without any trace of meaning it as a joke.

"God, you're strange. I mean… You're _different_."

"Yes, I've been told. Though that's not what people call me most of the time."

"What is it, then?" John raised his eyebrow in anticipation.

"Freak." The man didn't even flinch, not a muscle on his face moved. John suddenly felt some kind of remorse that nobody could see how brilliant this young man was, or if they did then no one told him so.

But before he could have expressed what was on his mind – he wasn't sure he wanted him to hear this, because, honestly, it would've been a bit too emotional for their first meeting – the lifeguard grabbed his free arm and dragged him towards the dance floor.

"What—" he started, but the other man cut him off.

"My 'boss' was right behind you, staring at me and started walking towards us. I'm supposed to be dancing with the guests so that's what I'll do." He turned John around and put his hand on the small of John's back.

"What are you—" John tried to protest and pull back, but the hand on his back pushed him closer to the damp torso of the man in front of him. His other hand was in the strong grip of the madman and he guided it towards his shoulder, and when he let go of John's hand he put his own on John's upper arm.

"Oh please, don't be so surprised. I saw you today on the beach. You were glancing at me every five minutes. You are clearly not opposed to men being this close to you."

"You are wrong," was all John could answer as the man turned him around so their chests touched and he was surrounded by thin but strong arms. He didn't look the man in the eye; he kept staring in the distance next to his head.

"Oh, I see," observed he, as he pulled away to look at John's face for a few moments. "It isn't 'men', is it?" His voice rang clearly even though the music was rather loud. John had a hard time focusing on what he said instead of how he did. "It is me, isn't it? You find me attractive, though you consider yourself straight." John's face must have twitched because the lifeguard – now entertainer – barked a little laugh. "Oh, the army again. All those men so close to each other, where personal space doesn't exist. I wonder how you didn't have a sexual encounter with one of your mates there." He observed John a little more as they swayed to the slow rhythm of the music, John still refusing to look him in the eye. His eyes were glued to his fingers that rested on the shoulder of this impossible man. "Ah, they'd tried, hadn't they? Small touches here," he moved his hand on John's back a little lower "and there," he pushed his thigh firmer against John's.

John was so surprised and embarrassed that all he could do was to wriggle out of the man's touch and push him away.

"How dare you! You know nothing about me and I don't even know who you are." His two fingers slammed against the lifeguard's chest as he punctuated his words.

"You know this is not entirely true. I told you what I know about you and it is, without doubt, more than 'nothing'. As for the second part, I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Well Sherlock Holmes," spat John through gritted teeth, "you can go and find someone else to play your petty game with." With that he turned around and pushed his way through the dancing crowd and headed back to his room where he slapped the door with much more force than was necessary.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and kicked his shoes off furiously. After a few minutes of massaging his temples he stood up abruptly, but a sudden pain ran through his right leg, from his hip down to his toes. He stood still for a moment, kneaded his thigh with a few firm strokes and walked to the minibar and pulled out a bottle of scotch and poured a third of the liquid into a glass.

"Hah, yes, very clever, really," he started talking to himself and pacing the floor. "I almost melted at his words at the bar and then he dragged me to the dance floor and what did I do? Panicked. Like a fucking virgin! Well, technically, that's what I am, but now he knows it, too! Well played, really. Brilliant. And what is my problem?" He gulped half of the glass and gestured with it as he walked around the room, the bottle in his other hand. "He didn't say anything I haven't known yet. Yes, some of the guys tried hitting on me, but I told all of them that I'm not interested. I'm not. I wasn't. Oh, shit," he turned on his heels, almost sloshing the alcohol on the expensive carpet, "he's an arrogant prat. Why do I find him so irresist—interesting?" With a loud thump he sat back down on the bed, drank what was left in his glass and put it down by the foot of the bed. He allowed himself one last heavy sigh and went to the bathroom to get ready for sleep.


End file.
